C is for Can
by Kaija West
Summary: Sort of a quick how Sands got his groove back fic.


Well here's the first non-slash fic I ever posted. And yay, it includes a rather unique murder weapon.  
  
DISCLAIMER: Don't own, no $ made.  
  
NOTES: Can be found at end.  
  
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"E is for Every. F is for From..."  
  
He's heard this countless times now. Sands thinks if he hears her say it one more time he's going to tell her that E and F are for E-Fucking-nuff. But it's just too much effort to say it. Somehow it doesn't seem like it's worth bothering anymore. In fact, most everything seems that way. That's why he's still here, still stuck in this Goddamn rehabilitation/hospital/hell place.  
  
And it's also why he can't be bothered telling the old lady to fuck off. He really doesn't care about fucking single letter contractions, doesn't give a shit about learning Braille at all. He hardly bothered to read before, always more interested in talking to people directly. Somehow the written word always failed to express his distain, to illustrate any emotion as far as he was concerned. He never played puppeteer with letters and notes before so why should he care now? He could nearly control a country with a cell phone before so why should it matter now if he can't read? It wasn't like he was going to start sending letters, let alone notes comprised of bumpy dots on paper.  
  
"G is for Go..."  
  
"Where she should go is to Hell," he thinks. Damn old bitch should die already and leave him in peace. It'd be a whole lot easier to wallow ("No, not wallowing," he thinks, "regrouping") if she'd stop talking and just die. He's sure she's told him her name. Bitch has told him every other fucking detail of her life that he couldn't care less about. Just his luck the old cunt used to teach blind people and has decided to make him her latest project.  
  
From the daily weakening of her voice Sands figures he'll be her last "student". He can't remember her name but does remember that she's dying from cancer,  
  
that's why she's here. "Stick me in with dying, old people: welcome to the United States of fucking America, home to one of the most fucked-up health care systems in the world," he thinks humorlessly. Not that Mexico was any better - he'd been sure they were trying to kill him when he'd been stuck in that dirty, stinking Mexican hospital for a week before being stable enough to ship back.  
  
He hopes she'll croak soon so he'll never have to hear that cracking, voice of death another day. He figures she probably thinks she's doing him a favor, but really she's just slightly more interesting to listen to than a fly buzzing around his head, which is why he just can't be bothered telling her fuck off.  
  
Sands realizes his thoughts have drifted off (as they usually do while he tries to tune out her incessant yapping) because she's now recounting some dull story he vaguely recognizes about a past student who's probably long since died (of boredom, he adds, thinking that person was also a victim of her yapping). He listens as she coughs again, the rattle in her chest more noticeable everyday. He wishes again that she would just hurry up and die.  
  
She starts telling him how thankful she is that he's here for her, that there's someone she can help before she "passes on". He listens to the rustle of clothing  
  
telling his she's turned away, probably in search of a tissue. Before he can fully realize when he's doing Sands lifts the heavy Brailler and smashes it into her skull, killing her instantly. He knows by the sound (or rather lack thereof) that she's dead but still he feels her neck lightly for a pulse. Warm blood dribbles down onto his fingers and it disgusts him in a way other people's blood never has before. Finding no pulse he withdraws his hand from the mess that was Miz. Violet (oh sure, NOW he remembers her name).  
  
He's not sure if he's done her a favor for her so called kindness by putting her out of her misery or delivered punishment for her inability to shut the hell up, but somehow it feels like a balance has been restored. He wipes the gore off his fingers, onto her knitted sweater and stands up. He tosses down a wad of cash to cover the costs of the machine he assumes must now be broken. Heading in the direction of the door he turns back, though it makes little difference since neither of them can see he's facing her.  
  
"Even Steven you old bitch," he says, then heads out the door. He wonders how soon until the next flight to Mexico.  
  
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Notes: My apologies for the dorky title. I just couldn't resist when I started thinking about the whole MexiCAN/CAN'T.  
  
I've been joking for years about how heavy Braillers are and how you could kill someone with one. They're kinda of like old typewritters but WAY heavier. I just never had an excuse to use one as a murder weapon in a fic until now. It never suited anything else but it was perfect for Sands.  
  
And just for anyone who might be wondering: Single-letter contractions are where you'd have just a letter to represent a word. Like if you had the letter "r" alone it would mean the word "rather". All letters (except "a" for obvious reasons) have a word they can represent. Okay, single letter contractions are a way of saving space. In Braille each letter is represented by one cell (a combo of dots in varying # and placement). But if you have a cell for every letter it becomes REALLY long. Things like capitals and punctuation have to be indicated too so it gets really long on the page. Well since nobody wants their books to look like phone books they use contractions. The thing is you kinda just have to memorize what each single-letter contraction is. That's what she was trying to teach Sands. 


End file.
